


Collections of Unfixed Points

by tiny_white_hats



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Wishverse, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s02e17 Passion, F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiny_white_hats/pseuds/tiny_white_hats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate reality, in "Passion," Angelus kills Giles, Xander, Willow, and Oz after he murders Jenny, and grief-stricken Buffy inadvertently wishes that she and her friends had lived normal lives, like they would've if she wasn't the Slayer and they weren't on the Hellmouth. She wakes up in an alternate universe, five years later, with no memories of her life as the Slayer, until she starts having memories in the form of dreams. Suddenly, she, Xander, Willow, and Oz, 23 year olds with perfectly mundane lives, are confronted with the supernatural, and introduced by Angel Investigations to a world out of balance that only they can set straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue, set in the divergent canon.  
> My first chaptered fic, and kinda high concept. Buffy's may seem a little over the top; she was always a little dramatic, especially in high school, and, she's a 17 year old whose evil boyfriend just murdered all of her friends. I think she's allowed to be dramatic at this point.  
> A big thank you to my two betas, Rowan Tritton and Alenida.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, I'm merely writing fanfiction.

_"When I say out loud_

_I wanna get out of this_

_I wonder is there anything_

_I'm gonna miss"_

-Third Eye Blind

 

A young woman slunk silently through narrow rows of tombstones. The California grass was brittle and dry; it had gone too long without rain, and it crunched with each step she took. Her steady, measured footsteps and the whispering brush of her long beige coat were the only sounds in the graveyard except the loud wails of another woman, hidden somewhere among the dead. The first woman followed the calls as if she were following a homing beacon, like a hunter scenting down her prey.

Buffy Summers was weeping deep within the cemetery, near the open field where the rows of the dead were replaced by still empty earth. Buffy was the first Slayer the woman had ever purposefully sought out, but, honestly, she wasn’t acting much like what she’d expected from a Slayer. Buffy was indistinguishable from every other scorned woman before her, brought down to the same level as a thousand mere mortals. Mortals were messy and destructive, careless in ways that demons weren’t, but they were so imaginative. They always made the best wishes.

Finally the woman found the Slayer, collapsed on her knees at the barren edge of the graveyard, bracing herself against the cold dirt. She knelt before four plots of fresh turned earth, weeping unrestrainedly and heaving gasping breaths to choke out half formed sentences.

“My fault,” the woman was able to distinguish, before Buffy choked on a fresh wave of tears. “All my fault!”

It was depressing and more than a little pathetic, really. All of the humans the Slayer wept over would've died before long; mortals were fragile that way. Like a swarm of tiny, flickering candles; just one careless breath (too hard, too fast, too close, no difference) and they’re gone forever. Maybe they wouldn’t have been killed by what was left of the girl’s lover, but they wouldn’t have lived forever. She wished the girl would hurry up and make a wish already. She couldn’t leave until a wish was made, and, though she really was anticipating granting the Slayer’s wish, even with her light jacket, it was cold for California at this time of year.

“It's all my-”

“How is it your fault?” the woman asked as she gazed down at the crumpled blonde. Her tone was sympathetic, her eyes as cold as the cemetery’s rusty iron gates. The set-up for the wish-making was always the worst part of the job; it would be much quicker if she could just ask what the girl wished for and grant it. Simple, direct, effective, and without all of the wasted time and energy.

“All my fault,” was the only answer Buffy was able to give.

“Yes,” her uninvited companion responded, trying desperately not to reveal her impatience, and, unfortunately, failing rather noticeably. “You've mentioned. How did they die, Buffy?”

The woman winced; she shouldn't have let it slip that she knew the Slayer's name. Humans were so untrusting, and too much knowledge immediately put them on guard. Paranoid infants, all of them. Thankfully, the blonde was too involved with her grief to notice the slip and just continued to cry, pausing only to heave out a broken-sounding answer.

“I couldn't save them.” Her words seem to trigger something, and the young woman’s arms crumpled beneath her, leaving her collapsed on the ground, her supine form shaking with the force of her sobs.

The earth before the row of four headstones was fresh and bare of grass. The burials had been recent, if the Slayer’s crow black attire was any indication. There had been enough time to put up nondescript grey markers for the four plots, but she was obviously still mourning their deaths, her pain as fresh as the newly marked graves.

“He killed them, and I couldn't save them.” Her sobs doubled, which impressed the strange woman immensely. She had seen a lot of hurt women in her day, but none of them had managed to cry anywhere near this violently. It was refreshing.

“Who?”

“A-A-An-gel!” the prostrate blonde somehow managed to choke out, between her ragged and labored breaths.

“What happened?” she asked Buffy, her voice coaxing and soft as silk, urging Buffy to speak. Now that she seemed to be getting somewhere, her patience slowly trickled back.

“They're all, all d-d-dead. They should be alive! All of them!”

Buffy had become more coherent, which she was grateful for; trying to decipher her sobs had become rather tiresome. However, the girl was becoming quite frenzied and out of sorts, which, frankly, wasn't all that much of an improvement. It was something though; this way she'd be easier to guide into making a wish.

“I was the one he wanted! He should’ve killed me! But now, now they’re d-dead! Everyone’s dead!” Her voice was broken, words jagged like rough-cut glass shards. She had the same broken look in her empty eyes, as if her world had shattered before her and watching it happen had pushed her one step away from insanity. Most of what had held Buffy’s life together was buried before her, and the part that wasn’t was in the Summers’ family burial plot in Los Angeles. “The-they shouldn’t be. I should’ve saved them.”

“He betrayed you, didn’t he? Breaking your heart, killing your friends? Though, honestly,” she said as an aside, “they would've died eventually working with you. But don’t you hate him? Want him to suffer?”

“See! All my fault!” Buffy shrieked, drowning out the other woman’s voice, partway through her coaxing. “If they didn't know me, they wouldn't be dead! If I wasn't the Slayer, if we were all normal, if we weren’t stuck on the Goddamn Hellmouth, they'd be alive! I wish we were all normal, all of us! I wish they weren't dead, that Angel never went evil, that he never killed my friends! I want this to be over! I just want to be normal!” During her tirade, Buffy had risen to her feet, and by the end, she shouted directly at the gravestones, a row of four, Giles, Harris, Osbourne, and Rosenberg.

If she had turned her back on her friends’ fresh graves, she would have seen the face of the woman behind her contort and twist, take on a reddish hue as blue veins spread like ink stains. She would have seen a slow, sinister grin twist across the demon's face, realizing the potential that this unanticipated wish had.

“Done,” Anyanka crowed triumphantly and vanished like a curl of smoke. When Buffy finally turned around, there was no one there, just rows of stone markers. Then, suddenly, there was nothing.


	2. Best of All Possible Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years later, in the Wishverse, Buffy Summers is starting to learn that the world may be just a bit scarier than she'd realized, Willow and Oz are building a life together, and Angel is dreaming of the girl of his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story will pick up pretty soon, but for now, enjoy the domesticity of this reality's Scoobies. 
> 
> All feedback is welcome, especially comments on characterization and continuity questions! Also, a big thank you to my Beta, Alenida, who's had to deal with my time management/delay issues.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't anything here, I'm just playing.

_"If this is the best of all possible worlds, what are the others?"_

-Voltaire _Candide_

* * *

Tuesday, 6:04 AM

#4C Cairnwood Apartment Complex, Sunnydale, California

Buffy Summers woke up in her familiar bed, gasping for breath. Her sheets were twisted around her, blankets thrown every direction; her gaze darted nervously from side to side. She was completely confused: disoriented by her dream and left in the hazy twilight between sleeping and waking. It had been more than a simple dream; it was still too clear for that, every scene sharp and vivid. It had felt more like she was watching the events play out before her eyes than a usual nightmare, like everything she’d seen was real and concrete. Slowly, Buffy's breaths slowed in time with her heartbeat, and by the time they had both returned to normal, the unknown setting had resolved itself into Buffy's familiar room. The walls had always been that color, and the window had been open when she went to sleep, she reminded herself, due to the muggy California air. The shadows had been dancing eerily when she awoke, invoking images of sharp-toothed figures that sprung fully-formed from her subconscious, but now they settled into unwavering images of her desk, standing lamp, and chair. 

“Oh god,” Buffy whispered once in a hoarse voice, still rough from sleep. She threw back her covers, snarling when her foot became entangled in the mess of twists and turns she had somehow created as she dreamt, and padded silently to the kitchen of her apartment. 

Her dream had been beyond weird, and, even though Buffy had never been one to dwell on dreams for more than a few moments, it remained firmly stuck in the front of her brain, its surreal images playing on her eyelids each time she blinked. Buffy tried not to blink, and she tried to dismiss her worry, but it was as if the dream was stuck on repeat.

The series of images and scenes she had been subjected to were not unlike a memoir set to film, the story of someone else's (admittedly weird) life. The eeriest part was, it felt like her own life. None of the things she saw had ever happened to her, to the best of Buffy's knowledge, but she recognized the scenery and she knew the cast. 

She had seen Willow, Xander, and Oz in the park, in the Bronze, in her home countless times, and she recognized Cordelia Chase and Ms. Calendar, her old high school computer teacher, but she couldn't understand what they were all doing together, who the two men with them were, why they all had medieval weaponry, or why it made more sense than most of her life. 

The oldest of their group was another stranger, a bespectacled man who seemed to own only an abundance of tweed suits. While he was in her dreams, he appeared in equal parts in the library and cemeteries, but he always disappeared before the end, at the same time as Xander, Willow, Oz, and Ms. Calendar. Every night they vanished, suddenly and all at once, leaving Buffy alone with a pair of strangers, Cordelia, and the second, devastatingly handsome man.

One of the strangers had been a girl, dark hair, dark eyes, and a sense of familiarity that clung, even now that Buffy had woken up. She felt like a relative of some kind, maybe, the distant kind you only see at annual family reunions, someone who was recognizable but not close. It was troubling, to say the least, to think that she felt this uncanny closeness with someone who seemed to exist only in her mind. The other of the two new strangers seemed to hover near the girl, as if she were his responsibility (at least until she disappeared in the middle of the dream). The brown haired girl-Faith, Buffy somehow instinctively knew to call her-was different than the others, more akin Buffy somehow, although Buffy couldn’t understand why she thought that.

And out of all of the unnerving and bewildering scenes and characters and actions from her dream, she was most confused by the mysterious man who appeared in so many of the more surreal scenes. He was tall, towering over her, with brown hair and dark eyes and a fleeting smile. The man wore an expression of suffering that didn't fade, even the few he smiled. He was the only figure, excepting Cordelia, to remain a constant presence from start to end in her dreams, though right when all of her friends disappeared something about him changed, and he became one of the things she fought. He was a stranger, in every sense of the word, and despite not knowing the first thing about him, Buffy felt strongly drawn to yet repelled by him, as if he had a dark secret that couldn't quite keep her away. 

It was fascinating because Buffy couldn't help but feel that she had known him well once, but she’d never seen him before. 

It was terrifying, because, for no reason other than soul deep conviction, Buffy felt that, once upon a time, she had loved this man.

When she reached her kitchen, Buffy read 6:43 in glowing green digits on her microwave. It was about time she got up anyways, she acknowledged wearily, and made her way to the coffeemaker, absently hoping that the creepy, fascinating dream wouldn’t set the tone for the day. 

* * *

Friday, 6:45 PM

#7B Monkswood Apartments, Cambridge, Massachusets

On the other side of the country, Daniel Osbourne-better known as Oz-opened the door to let his girlfriend Willow into their apartment. He’d sent her out to drop off their dry cleaning, insisting that it had to be done that evening. When she’d asked him why, the only answer he’d given her was a mysterious smile.

“Oz!” Willow laughed, claiming his hand in hers once she'd cleared the door. “What's all this for?” It had become clear the moment he let her into the apartment just why the dry cleaning had been so important, and Willow was pleasantly surprised to see exactly why her boyfriend had needed her out of the apartment for a half hour. Oz had spent the time straightening up the apartment and preparing the dining room table, setting out a romantic meal for two. A little cliché, maybe, with the candles and the background music, but undeniably sweet, especially for her reserved boyfriend.

“Pretty much you,” Oz answered after pulling out both chairs and taking a seat. He reached across the table, carefully stretching around the candle so as not to knock it onto the white tablecloth, and enfolded her small hand in his own. Willow squeezed his hand and smiled sweetly back at him, but she didn't let the question drop. 

“No, really. Not that I don’t love it when you cook, and not that I’m not a fan of how nice everything looks, but I want to know what the occasion is!”

“No occasion. I love you, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Willow cooed, squeezing Oz’s hand. “You’re sweet. I love you too.”

“Gladness,” Oz smiled at her, pulling his hand away to cut at his steak. “Sorry if the food’s a bit weird. My 4 o’clock got cancelled so I cooked then and reheated it while you were out.”

“Don’t worry, it’s perfect, Oz. Everything is perfect.”

They began to eat with the relish of the half-starved, exchanging warm glances periodically, but not feeling a need to fill the empty air. The quiet hovered between and around them as they ate, a comfortable silence that wasn't unusual in their relationship. Oz was predisposed towards quiet, and, while Willow wasn't, over the years they had been together she had come to regard the comfortable silence as welcoming, something for just the two of them.

Without breaking the comfortable lull in conversation, Oz leaned over the table for a kiss. It was short and sweet, and just because it had been too long since he last kissed Willow, but it left them both smiling widely and Willow blushing lightly. 

“I wish you would smile like that more,” Willow wistfully murmured and traced the curve of her boyfriend's mouth with a single finger. “You have a beautiful smile, especially when you grin like this.”

“Hmm,” Oz grabbed her reaching hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. “You make me smile. Maybe I should just spend some time around you?”

“That'd be nice,” Willow smiled in return, before changing the subject excitedly. “So, new job! How’s that going? Well, at least how are the lessons you’re not skipping to cook me fancy meals going?”

“I like it. Teaching guitar is cool.”

“That's all you've got to say about it?” his girlfriend teased him gently.

Oz scratched his head thoughtfully before replying. “I like the kids I'm teaching. They've got potential. Plus, kids are cool.”

“Well, that's good. I like it when you're happy.” She squeezed the hand that was still holding her own, clasped across the middle of their dining room table. 

“Well, that's even better.” At Willow's grin and raised eyebrow, Oz elaborated, slightly against form. “You see, happy Willows make for happy Ozs, so, the way I see it, it's like a circle of happiness. Symbiosis.”

Willow's grin was bright and open as she responded, her voice as high pitched as a whistle, “Like the Circle of Life!” Oz grinned fondly; even at age twenty-two, Willow still loved Disney, and he loved her for it.

“Exactly. Only, without the song. And I'm thinking without the lion cub, too.”

"You could always write the song,” Willow suggested coyly, hoping Oz would do just that.

“Write a song for you? Will, all my songs are already for you.”

“Aww,” Willow cooed, squeezing his hand in her own again and letting it go to return to her dinner.

By the time Oz had nearly finished his steak and Willow had finished and left her uneaten bits to grow cold, they began to talk again, no longer too hungry to pause for speech. Words came just as easily to them as silence; even after nearly six years together, they had never run out of things to say. Conversation was light and varied, moving quickly and without warning from classes to TV shows they watched together and to getting a new coffee table for the apartment. Before long, Willow took over the conversation, embarking on a long-winded spiel in which she weighed the pros and cons of heading home to Sunnydale for Summer Break.

Oz listened to her quietly, nodding at the right times, though his mind was a million miles away. He sat tensely in his chair, like a compressed spring, more on edge than was usual for him. He wanted to get it over with, just ask her so he could know what her answer would be, but he could be patient. Tonight was the night to finally propose; he knew it, the same way he had known that Willow was the one for him the moment he saw her. The ring was burning a hole in his pocket and Oz had never felt surer, never felt more in love than he did now.

“So, what do you think, sweetie?”

“I think we've got some time, Wills. Break’s not next week.” He saw her open her mouth to reply, but cut her off, finally ready to take the plunge.

“Will, not to cut you off, but, question.”

“Mm-hmm?” Willow looked curious and completely earnest, her eyes wide and loving as she watched at him. Oz smiled as he looked back at her and didn't understand how anyone could ever love anyone else.

“I'm a little nervous. Promise not to laugh?” Oz was stalling, just slightly, but this was a big step, a big choice. If he wasn't a little anxious, he would have been foolish. He was completely certain he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this amazing woman, he'd been sure for six years now, but he couldn't help but feel nervous, being this open and vulnerable. He felt completely exposed, like somebody had peeled away his skin to look inside, to see how his heart beat and blood pumped. It was an unnerving sensation.

“Oh, Oz. I'd never laugh at you. Unless you were being funny, then I'd laugh. But you're not being funny now, I don't think. So, yeah, no laughing here.”

Oz pulled the box out of his pocket, and held it in his hand for a moment. It felt terribly light, far lighter than it should, as if there was an empty space where a diamond ring should’ve sat. He gave her a small smile, feeling like praying for the first time in years, and he felt instantly warmed by the answering look on her face. God, he loved her, more than anything. Encouraged by her smile, Oz stood from his chair and dropped to one knee, holding the tiny box clasped tightly in his hand up for Willow.

“Willow, you know I'm not always big with words, but for you, I'm gonna try.

“I wanted to find the perfect moment to do this, the perfect restaurant, the perfect day, the perfect ring, but none of that matters. I get it now. No such thing as perfect, really. So, I’m gonna make my own moment, because I’m here and you’re here and I’m giving you this ring, and that’s all the perfect I need.

“I’m in love with you, Will. I didn't know it was possible to love someone this much, but I do. I've been falling in love with you more every day since we first met in high school, and I want to fall in love with you even more for the rest of our lives. We have a million moments ahead of us, and I bet we can make them all perfect.

“Willow Rosenberg, will you marry me?”

Willow was silent, still as a statue, afraid if she breathed too deeply she’d shatter the moment like glass. She stared, her heart in her eyes, at Oz; Oz, who had just asked her to marry him. He had covered all the bases: bended knee, diamond ring, nervous boyfriend. All that was missing was her answer.

“Oh, Oz,” she whispered, completely awed by the love in his expressive eyes.

Then, “Yes!" she squealed. "Yes, I'll marry you!” Willow dove into his arms, inadvertently tackling him to the ground in an explosion of delighted laughter. She pressed kisses all over his face, each fleeting as a snowflake, before Oz sat up and pulled her into his lap. Grinning wider than she’d ever seen him, he caught her mouth in a kiss that made her heart jump a beat. Oz pulled the ring out of the box and slipped it onto his new fiancé's finger.

“Oz, it's beautiful.” Willow still sounded a little awe-struck, but the ring on her finger must have made the whole thing seem a little more real.

“Just like you.” Oz pulled her into another kiss, before backing away to lean their foreheads together. Willow grinned like the sun, so bright that Oz thought prolonged exposure might make him go blind, but he couldn’t look away.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that much all at once,” she giggled quietly, rubbing her nose against his.

“I had a lot I needed to say to you. Didn’t want to forget anything important.”

“Mm, I’m glad. It would’ve been a bummer if you left something important out.” Willow couldn’t seem to stop smiling, wide enough to make her cheeks start to feel sore and stretched out, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t imagine a reason in the world to stop grinning or anything that could lessen her happiness in any way. She was marrying Oz! She, Willow Rosenberg, was getting married! What could feel better than this?

“Oz! Oz! We have to call everyone! Tell them we're getting married!” Willow couldn't remember being this happy in a long time, and she wanted everyone to know it. There were so many calls to make and-

Before her thoughts could completely run away, Oz cut in, a private, just-for-Willow, smile on his face and caught her hand in his.

“Not tonight.” Willow's mouth opened in protest-how could he not want to share their amazing news?-but Oz brought her hand to his mouth for a kiss and Willow silenced her objection, still as charmed by the gesture as she had been at 17.

“Tonight's for us. We can call everyone in the morning.”

Willow grinned once more. She definitely liked the sound of that.

* * *

Saturday, 10:20 AM

#4C, Innisbrooke Suites, Sunnydale, California

“Xander!” Buffy shouted, entering his messy apartment with the spare key he'd given her when he first moved in. She hadn't been able to fall asleep after her weird dream the night before, the fourth one this week, and she needed to talk to someone about it in the worst way.

He didn’t answer, but it was a Saturday, so Buffy knew he wasn't working. He was probably sleeping late, as he did every morning he didn’t have to be at the construction site. Maybe she should just make some breakfast. Food always woke him up.

Twenty minutes later, Xander stumbled out of his bedroom, awoken by the smell of bacon, as Buffy had predicted. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, nearly tripping over his too-long pajama bottoms, for a moment looking much younger than his 23 years.

“Bacon?” He mumbled blearily, before he caught sight of Buffy at the stove, spatula in hand.

“And pancakes. It's your lucky day, Xand,” she grinned at him, watching his brain slowly come to life.

“Morning, Buff.” A beat, then, “What are you doin' here so early?”

“It's after 10, Xander. It's not early.” Buffy turned back to the nearly burning pancakes with an affectionate grin.

Xander mulled over this for a moment, before he got a handle on the situation.

“So, not that I'm opposed to you showing up unannounced to cook for me, and not that I wouldn't appreciate an encore performance tomorrow morning, but what gives, Buffy?”

“No reason. Just wanted to see my Xander-shaped friend, and thought you might want some breakfast. And you know me, regular Martha Stuart.” Buffy did guilty lying about as well as Willow, so Xander had no trouble seeing through her paper-thin excuses.

“Is everything alright?” Xander worried, more intuitively than Buffy had expected this early in his morning.

“No big,” Buffy responded, pushing the sizzling bacon around the pan a little bit. “Just needed some friend time, that’s all.”

“Xander Harris, best friend extraordinaire, at your service.” Xander grinned, giving a cheesy half bow, and Buffy’s grim mood lightened, just a touch.

For a few seconds, they were quiet, and the bubbling of the frying bacon seemed to become louder to fill the empty air. Buffy fidgeted as she stood at the stove, trying to find a graceful way to broach the subject she wanted to get into.

“So, have you had any weird dreams lately?” she asked suddenly, giving up on subtlety. She didn’t look away from the pancakes that were nearly ready to be flipped, not wanting to see if Xander thought her question was a bit off-kilter.

“Um, getting into dream interpretation, Buff? I mean, it's an interesting choice of hobby, but I think knitting is probably more popular. Also, easier to shop for.”

“There will be no knitting. Also, no dream interpretation. I’m just feeling curious. I've been having these weird dreams for the past few nights. It's like they're all the same dream, but I'm only getting pieces each night, like the whole story is too big for one dream. Like, chapters, or something.”

“Alright,” Xander grinned at Buffy as she put a plate with a pile of pancakes in front of him. “I'm intrigued. What are the dreams about? Also, am I in them?”

“Yeah, you are, actually,” Buffy answered and turned back to the stove to rescue the bacon from burning.

“So, anyways, these dreams. It's like they're the story of someone's life–”

“Hey!” Xander interrupted, boyish glee clear on his face and in his voice. “Maybe you're possessed or haunted by some sort of ghost, and you have to help it move on, find closure! Or–”

“Xand. Can I finish?” Xander nodded, chastised, and Buffy returned to her explanation. “So, they're like someone's life story, right? Only, it feels like my own life. And it's not just because they're my dreams. When I talk, in the dreams, it's my voice, and it's my body and my clothes, and it feels like reality, like my life, even after I wake up.

“And then, it’s not just me, but you're there, in the dreams, and so are Willow, and Oz, and Ms. Calendar, and-can't imagine why-but Cordelia Chase showed up a lot.”

“Queen C?!”

“Yeah! I know, right? And in the dreams, we're almost friends or something, I think. I’m pretty sure I actually like her in the dreams. And, there's this really hot guy, about our age now, and he's there too, and I've never seen him in my life, but I feel like I know him, Xand.” She very deliberately left out the part where she remembered being in love with the dark-haired stranger. She picked up the plate of now-cooled bacon and returned to the table, plate in hand, seeing people that weren’t really there.

“Very weird, Buff.” Xander agreed around a piece of half-chewed bacon, but it was obvious he was just going through the motions.

“And in the dreams, we're all back in high school, and Cordelia's friends with us, and you were dating her, I think. Oh, and because my freaky dream world alterna-life wasn’t already weird enough, we spend our free time fighting vampires.” Buffy sat across from Xander, but she missed his laugh of surprise, she was so far off in her own dream world.

“I don't know how I'm sure they're vampires, but we fought them, all of us. They turned to dust when we staked them, y'know, stake to the heart and all that, and we had crosses and holy water. And I normally fought alone, I think because I was the Slayer? At least, that's what everyone called me, but sometimes the mystery man would come, and sometimes this oldish guy who I think may have been the librarian would, and occasionally you, Will, Oz, and Cordelia too. And there was this other man, nerdy type, British too, but I got the feeling he was a little more with the annoying than our librarian friend. And Faith, I think she was like me, only I don’t know how I know any of that, since I don’t know her at all.

“But, Xander, the weirdest part is that I remember these dreams perfectly, like they’re my actual high school memories. I never remember my dreams, and I remember things about the dreams that I didn't actually dream! Like Faith’s name! And Willow, I never saw her do magic, but I think she was a witch. And I knew that we were killing vampires, but nobody ever called them that.

“Xander, these dreams feel like they’re real.”

“Buff, c’mon. You–” Xander cut off suddenly, taken aback by the seriousness on her face. “You don’t actually think that, do you?”

“I don’t know! That’s the problem, Xan. I don’t know what to think!” Buffy was beginning to sound a little out of her depth, as if she had swum too far from shore.

“It’s crazy, obviously, but it makes sense, somehow. Like, instinctively. It all feels true.”

“Feels true? What’s that supposed to mean?” Xander tilted his head to gaze at her curiously, looking like a giant parakeet with a beak stuffed full of bacon.

“I don’t know, okay?! I don’t have a clue, Xander! I don’t know what the hell is going on in my own head!”

“Well, you know these dreams aren’t real, right? I mean, they’re just dreams, Buff. Nothing to worry about.”

“I guess…”

“C’mon, Buff! Cheer up! At least your weird dreams are the cool kind. When I have weird dreams, they without fail involve some sort of sea creature, often squid, politicians, cattle-herding, or my public humiliation and/or nudity. Also, clowns, in cases of nightmares.” Xander’s goofy, overlarge grin and ridiculous attempts at reassurance worked better than he had dreamed, and a grin burst through Buffy’s gloomy countenance.

“Well, I suppose I should count myself lucky. There has been a distinct lackage of squid, politicians, cattle-herding, and public nudity in my dreams, so far. Tonight could be the night to break the streak, though,” Buffy laughed, determined to put the night’s weirdness behind her. She could handle a few weird dreams, no problem, as long as she had better things to think about.

As if by magic, a shrill ring split the air in the kitchen, masking the sounds of Xander chewing. Buffy turned about wildly, looking for the source of the noise; she was never been able to find Xander’s phone. Maybe if he put it away properly once in a while, it wouldn’t be so damn hard to track down.

“Hey, Buffy, can you get that?” The phone blared obnoxiously from Buffy's left once more, and Xander gestured towards it, probably realizing that he was the only one with any clue as to its whereabouts. Buffy sprang toward the noise with unusual speed, hoping to catch the noisemaker before its next shill ring. Xander was far too captivated by his breakfast to notice anything weird, but Buffy was mildly disturbed by her newfound speed. Her dreams came rushing back with alarming clarity: she'd been unusually quick in her dream world, as well.

“Hello,” she gasped into the phone, not sounding breathless, but still not sounding as if all was well.

“Buffy?” came the puzzled response through the cordless phone. “So that’s why you didn’t pick up your phone! Oh, and what are you doing at Xander's so early? And he’s awake, too, right? Wait–did we call too early? I tried to factor in the time difference, but I really wanted to call you guys, and are you sure it’s not too early?”

“Who is–” Buffy began, still disoriented by her The Flash moment. “Oh!” With sudden clarity she squealed into the phone, “Willow!!”

“Willow?” Xander parroted joyfully, but with his mouth full of pancakes it sounded more along the lines of “Wu-oe?”

“And Oz,” Oz replied, speaking at the same time as Xander but with much greater coherency.

“What's up, you guys?!” Buffy exclaimed happily, mouthing “Will and Oz” to Xander when he adopted a confused expression at the use of the plural.

“Put Xander on too, Buff. We've got news!” Buffy was definitely intrigued by the obvious happiness in her best friend's voice. Obviously, whatever they had to share was good news, and Buffy wanted to know.

“Xander! Where's speakerphone?” Buffy barked, practically tossing the phone to him in her haste.

“Right here, geez. What's the rush, Buff?”

“They've got big news! Do you think they're moving back, or Oz's band is getting recorded, or Will got some neat internship, or–”

“Um, Buffy?” echoed through the phone in Xander's hand, now set to speakerphone. “Why don't we just tell you?”

“Willow!” Xander shouted into the phone, loudly enough to make Buffy wince.

“Hey Xand–”

“How's Boston? How’s senior year at Harvard going? Kicking its ass? How's the Oz-Man? Oh, he's there too, isn't he! Oz! What's up, man? How–”

“Xander!” Buffy interrupted, snatching the phone out of his hand. “Are you going to let them talk or not?”

“Right,” he sheepishly scratched his head and shot Buffy an apologetic smile. “Sorry, guys.”

“It's cool,” Oz replied, before Willow took over the conversation.

“Are you guys both there?” She paused, waiting for confirmation from both that they were, indeed, there before continuing. “Oz and I are getting married!”

There was a beat, where Buffy and Xander were silent, unsure of what to say. True, Buffy had been expecting wedding bells for the pair eventually, but not nearly this early.

“You guys still there?” Oz asked, his tone opaque, but just enough tension leaking through for Buffy to pick up on it. She really needed to work on her happy, supportive best friend routine some more, it turned out.

“Yeah, it's just, wow! That's amazing, you guys! I don't even know what to say! Congratulations, I guess!”

“Yeah,” Xander echoed, with forced enthusiasm. “Congratulations! When's the wedding?”

This, predictably set Willow off on an excited babble, with Oz offering the occasional interjection or agreement, while Xander and Buffy listened in a dazed sort of silence.

Willow finally slowed down, and Oz took her place.

“Hey, you guys? We’re gonna have to go. We still need to call our folks. Figure they'd like to hear about this.”

“You called us first?” Buffy tried, and failed, to keep the surprise out of her voice, but couldn't help but feel incredibly touched.

“Well, sure!” Willow sounded so matter of fact that Buffy felt silly for asking. “You’re our best friends! Besides, we'd rather talk to somebody positive first before the inevitable parental dispute.”

“Don’t worry about it, Will. Your parents love you; they’ll be happy for you.”

“See,” she faintly heard Oz’s voice through the phone as he spoke to his new fiancée, “Buffy agrees with me: there’s no reason to worry.”

“All right,” Willow sighs into the phone, sounding resigned. “Talk to you later, Buff? Xan?”

“Absolutely,” was Xander's emphatic response, and with that, they exchanged farewells and hung up.

For a moment, the two stared at the phone, still clutched in Buffy's hand. Finally, Xander quietly remarked, “Don't you think they’re a little young to be getting married?”

“They've been together for six years, Xand. I think they’ve been together long enough to know if they’re ready.”

“It’s just, it’s hard, I guess, to accept how, how...grown-up Willow is. It’s like yesterday, we were playing in the sandbox and now she’s engaged!”

“We’ve all got to grow up sometime.” Buffy had always known that the relationship between Willow and Xander had meant a lot both of her friends, but she’d never realized how much Xander was still holding onto it. “You’ve got to let her go, Xander. She’ll always be your best friend, but she’s not a little girl anymore. You’ve got to accept that.”

“Yeah, I get it, Buffy.” Xander had adopted the closed off look he got when he didn’t want to talk about something, so Buffy didn’t press the issue. She just prayed that Xander came to terms with everything before he saw Willow again.

* * *

Saturday, 12:40

Room 284, Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles, California

“God, Angel. Remember electricity? We’ve already paid for it, might as well use it.”

“What? Cordelia?” Angel squinted, looking up at her, now completely distracted. Before the tall girl had burst into his room and switched on his overhead lights, Angel had been drawing her again, the mysterious dream girl. 

“Wes sent me to tell that we have a walk-in client, because obviously nobody else was capable of climbing up here to your cave. But hurry, this one’s a paying customer!”

“Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Cordelia, who had been on her way out, turned around in the doorway to look at him. 

“Are you alright, Angel? You've been sulking up here more than usual. Even Gunn’s worried–not that he'd say anything.”

Despite how nosy and insensitive Cordelia could still be, it was times like this that reminded Angel of how far she'd come from the snob she’d been when he first met her and Faith. Ever since losing her fortune and inheriting Doyle's visions from the Powers That Be, Cordelia had mellowed out and become someone Angel was proud to call a friend. 

“I’m fine.”

Cordelia caught sight of the leatherbound sketchbook in his grasp and became curious. She’d known that Angel had some talent at drawing, but she’d rarely gotten the chance to see his work. “Drawing something?”

Angel sighed, glancing at the pages of his sketchbook and then down at his bedcovers. “It's nothing.”

“Uh huh,” Cordy scowled, dropping her hands on her hips and glaring at her boss menacingly. “Nothing.”

“It’s just this girl, I've been having dreams about her,” Angel replied, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Cordelia knew that he’d never really been a fan of sharing, but she was curious. Besides, learning to be a little more open wouldn’t kill Angel, so there was no reason why he shouldn’t show her his sketchbook.

“Oh, good,” Cordelia snorted, “That doesn’t sound like we should be worrying about you at all. You’re just hiding in your room and mooning over some girl who’s living in your head. That’s neat!”

“It’s not like that,” Angel scowled, clutching the sketchbook protectively, as if it were a rare and coveted tome, not just a beaten up old sketchbook. “I've just been having weird dreams, alright? She’s been in them. 

“So have you, for that matter.”

“Um, freaky.” Without warning, Cordelia sprang forward with surprising grace, grasping for the black sketchbook. 

“Got it!” she danced, waving it in the air and smirking triumphantly, while Angel scowled at her, having been caught by surprise. 

After a few moments of curiously paging through older pencil sketches, Cordelia froze, her brow furrowing in confusion. She must have reached the dream figures.

“Umm, Angel? Why are you drawing a bunch of losers from my old high school?” Cordelia continued to flip through the sketches, freezing when she encountered her own face. “And why are you drawing me with them? Because, honestly, we weren’t close. I mean, I guess Buffy was alright. She was on the squad with me, but she was always a little weird and was too busy with her loser friends for the rest of the squad.”

“You know her? Er, them?” Angel shot to his feet, to quickly for Cordelia to notice, transfixed by the drawings as she was. 

“Yeah, I know them,” she replied absently, still turning pages. 

“Cordelia!” Angel snarled savagely, ripping his sketchbook from her grasp. “Who are they?”

Cordelia looked at him wide-eyed, and mentally he checked to make sure he hadn't vamped out in frustration. Finding the all clear, he gave her an impatient look and made it clear that he was her boss, and he wanted answers now, dammit!

“Um, they went to Sunnydale with me. Buffy, Willow, Oz, Xander,” Cordelia pointed at each figure as she recited their names, obviously still confused. “They went to school with me, part of the oblivious Sunnydale hoards. I don’t know what they’d have to do with you.”

“Buffy,” Angel whispered under his breath, too quietly for Cordelia to notice, before shutting his sketchbook with an audible snap, like the closing of a vault door. 

Shaking his head once to clear it, Angel tossed the book onto his bedside table and clapped his hands together in front of him to reclaim Cordelia's attention. 

“You said something about a customer?”

“Right!” Cordelia exclaimed brightly, distracted from Angel's dreams of former classmates with the promise of a paying job. Even after all this time, Cordelia still loved her money, even if it was no longer the same motivation it once was for her. 

“Okay, so Fred says that you and Gunn should be able to handle it, because she’s got some research she needs to finish. She’s found the demon already–for once, our client was surprisingly informative–but she’s stumped on what the whatever-it’s-called is doing in California. Or possibly in this dimension, I’m not sure. She was sort of muttering to himself again.”

Angel smiled at his coworker's back as, chattering the entire way, she led him down the hallway, and he forced all thoughts of a small blonde named Buffy out of his head. He'd have time to dream of her later.


End file.
